Saturday, April 9, 2016

Incertitude

It is easy to take your own self for granted.
I remember a time when writing was not merely a convenient mode of expression,
but a necessary fallback against the vagaries of the world.

I can’t seem to place it any longer. Thought
self-care could be put on the backburner while I ran after things, often not
any less material. Never thought I’d start viewing everything from a
life-or-death perspective. Nothing ever is

However, I often forget my own pithy
observations about life and the ideal ways to counter its bittersweet snares.

Nonetheless, I itch to write. Something.
Anything. In times where my inner realm stands charred in the flames of my self-loathing
and its worldly manifestation dangles precariously on the edge of maddening
hopelessness, I don’t have it in me to go flailing before another entity in
order to be rescued.

The last time I did that, it was akin to
being saved from a cesspool only to be thrown in quick sand. No, thank you.

Thus the drive to turn upon what remains of
my survival instincts. The lure of creativity, the brief illusion of power
- to be what I’d wish to be, to run free
and unthinking…maybe writing is not something I could ever forget, despite
making myself believe otherwise…

…

He doesn’t bother reading through the rest of the entry. “Pessimist,” he
almost sighs in response.

I continue to regard him steadily, my gaze turning ever so hostile at
the slight posed to me by his lack of patience with respect to my work. “You could
at least finish.”

“I don’t need to.”

“Just because I may have conveyed the same thoughts maybe a thousand
times to you previously, the written form has more to it than the content.”

“I’m not here to appraise your writing skill. How much more flattery do
you need?”

“Limitless.”

“Insecure.”

“You don’t talk.”

“Why not? Easier to point fingers, no?”

“Let me shatter your glass walls next, then.”

My hand snakes up to his, tentatively grazing his fingers. It takes all
of my strength to remain composed – my eyes are beginning to cloud, my breath
already coming and going in heaves. I
could do with more than just holding hands, but it is all I can allow myself to
seek.

He grips my hand nevertheless. “What is it?”

“You know.”

“I do. I still need to hear it from you.”

I regard him, both a plea and an unspoken understanding in my eyes. Of
course he knows – we are cut from the same cloth after all. Forever caught up
in our heads, unable to demarcate reality from the veritable battlefields which
our minds are. Ruminating over our past selves, grieving for mistakes in a
manner almost akin to exhuming corpses when they should just be left buried, dead
and forgotten to the world except to our own selves.

“Does it matter?”

He doesn’t misunderstand the question. “Never mind, I won’t hold such
repetition against you.”

And so I tell him, perhaps for the thousandth and one time, wishing he
would simply read the rest of my scribblings instead.

…

However
we write, with the tiniest of hopes, for it to be read. It doesn’t matter whether
it is the world, or just one person; writing is also an exercise in
vindication, complete only upon external acknowledgement.

It is
also a measure of calculated courage over the false bravery of the spoken word.

I
write to you, my friend. There are, of course, a dozen threads in my head
needing some form of expression, closure even. Not all of them would result in the
sort of reaffirmation I need at the moment.

Reassurance
that I’m not the only one, certainly not mad enough to be feeling this way.
Recognition of my rather skewed perspective on life and the reasons for the
same.

I weave
words into a veil, hiding behind it while yet calling out to you. I drew that
line myself.

For
you see, I look to not delude myself with the temporary comfort of your
embrace, but stand on my own two feet while drawing strength from your faraway
presence. The idea, of ‘help’ being a call away, is empowering in itself.

After
all, did you not tell me that “darling, you see, no heroes are coming for you –
grab your sword and don your own armour”?